


Well-Disposed

by borevidal



Category: David Copperfield - Charles Dickens, Dickens - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, I APOLOGIZE, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borevidal/pseuds/borevidal
Summary: Uriah is a secret alpha who takes David's virginity.One explanation for David's curious fascination with Uriah Heep.





	Well-Disposed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [x_los](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/gifts).



Mr. Dick had been, I think, once deputized to lecture me on the subject of Man’s Three Natures, but the trouble from the king’s head had gotten mixed up in it and his effort left me none the wiser. Perhaps, had I a different teacher, I would have been swifter to note my predicament when I arrived to live with Wickfield. 

I knew only the dimmest outline of these facts of life: namely, that I was possessed of the third disposition, like my father before me, that those of my disposition were easily to be presumed upon by those of the first disposition, that, therefore, I ought to seek out those of the second disposition.  

From the first moment of my arrival at Wickfield’s I had been struck by the presence of Uriah Heep, moving like a Conger-eel on the edge of all my days. Why I took such careful note of him, and whence this curious fascination sprang, which drew me to him and repelled me at the same moment, as though I were a magnet spun on end, I could not discern.

I had known men who possessed the first disposition, Steerforth for one, who had been kind, but careless of the influence they possessed, and Murdstone, for another, whose treatment of my mother I need scarce detail. My aunt had taken pains to place me where none would dare presume upon me again. Wickfield and Agnes were both of the second disposition, mild and congenial, and I could not but suppose that Uriah Heep —that cringing, writhing, servile, skeletal figure – was the same.

It was on the eve of Jack Maldon’s leave-taking that the first incident with bearing on this narrative transpired. He had come into the office to make some complaint or other about the preparations for his departure, and I could hear his voice raised in anger. I drew nearer at the top of the stairs, keeping myself out of Maldon’s sight, to discover the issue.

Mr. Wickfield stood with downcast eyes and arms crossed behind his desk. Maldon stood toe to toe with Uriah, seeming, to my eyes, double his natural size. Yet Uriah did not budge. He wiped his hands and gave a most peculiar writhe, but he did not, as Wickfield had, retreat a step. “Oh, Mister Maldon, sir,” he murmured, “do be so good, do be so good as to temper yourself, though we are so very umble!"

I wished to go; that is, I was made aware that my mind wished to go, but I could not lift my feet. I feat somehow, obscurely, that I ought not draw my gaze from the scene before me. There was a strange fascination about it that I felt in my belly, a kind of curious warmth, as though I were gazing upon something I ought not to see, yet understood, yet dared not name. For a moment only, Uriah’s red eyes lifted to meet mine, and a queer shiver ran down my spine.

Maldon snarled – a nasty snarl, indeed, a feral snarl, and I wondered that the Old Soldier should think so highly of him – and then, abruptly, withdrew. Wickfield began to speak in a low tone. Heep stood, bristling, at the door. I felt as though I ought to go to him, to speak to him, to do him some service.

He and Wickfield exchanged a few words more until the latter was satisfied; then Wickfield withdrew and I stole down the stairs in search of a wayward schoolbook.

“He never could come into the office, without ordering and shoving me about,” said Uriah, scarcely favoring me with a glance. “One of your fine gentlemen, he is!”

“He is no gentleman,” said I, quite boldly, and he looked at me with a kind of veiled surprise.

“No, Master Copperfield, you must not say such things. Of course you saw how in his presence I was very meek and umble – and I am! But I didn’t like that sort of thing, and I don’t.”

“I do not wonder that you don’t.” I had seized my book and was on my way back up the stairs. “Heep,” said I, “is he – the other sort of man? I mean, the other disposition?”

“What might you say of him?" asked Uriah, "if he were?"

"Why," said I, "that he is little better than an animal, and I think his conduct shameful."

"Doubtless," Uriah said, with a peculiar writhe, "you are right, Master Copperfield.”

After that incident my schooldays passed one after the other on an unruffled tide. A book that unfolded the secrets of the dispositions passed furtively among my schoolfellows; a picture was torn out and scrutinized by candlelight. It depicted an act I had only heard mentioned in whispers — the moment that one of my disposition was permanently seized by one of the complementary disposition. His throat was bared and the other’s mouth was poised to mark him in a permanent fashion. Their posture was a subject of much fascination to me; visible even in the crude lines was an expression of such unutterable delight that I could scarcely credit it. It alarmed me; it intrigued me; it made me blush to think that one of my disposition could take such violent delight in such an unthinkable surrender. I could not imagine myself in such a position— fool that I was, I took myself to be immune to such folly.

The years rolled steadily by. The butcher made a salacious remark to me I shall not set down; I endeavored to defeat him and was soundly punished for it. One of my schoolfellows was missing for a day, or three -- the word passed amongst us that he was enduring his first condition, and must be locked up to sweat it out, or else one of the first disposition might discover him and alleviate his suffering, with a will. The picture in my mind was lewd, yet vague. 

One night we sat at the dinner table, Agnes, Wickfield, and I. He opened a letter and, having read it, set it down with a deep frown creasing his forehead. “What is it?” I asked.

“Mr. Maldon has returned from abroad,” said he. “The fox to his old henhouse!”

I nodded. I had but a dim sense of the truth of this remark, but did not like to show my ignorance. But when the meal had ended and the house was abed, I made my way into Uriah’s study. I was a good deal taller, then, with bear grease in my hair and a gold ring, and cut quite a fine figure.

I cannot say, exactly, why it seemed that I ought to put the question to Uriah, except that he was mixed up in my mind with that afternoon and Mr. Maldon.

“Mr. Maldon has returned from overseas,” said I.

“Ah,” said he. He did not look up, but the dints beside each nostril that twinkled in place of his eyes gave a sort of twitch.

“The fox to his henhouse,” said I. 

Uriah halted a moment before glancing up. “Were those _his_ words?” he said. “How typical, may I say, of my good and kindly benefactor. I have so much to be grateful for, indeed.” The dints beside his nostrils seemed more pronounced than they had ever been yet. I could not withdraw my attention from them, try as I might.

I had always been peculiarly aware of everything that Uriah did. His movements, his actions, his own personal alphabet of gestures; they were all intimately familiar to me, without my having made any conscious effort to study them. He now commenced to scraping his chin.

“Is it his — disposition that makes him so?”

“Oh dear, Master Copperfield, surely one of your learning might suspect the reason! I need scarcely explain it. I expect you must have known many such?”

“But two,” I said. “One was very cruel.” I did not know why I was telling him so much. But the words seemed to fall from my lips of their own accord, as though he and his mother were putting the thumbscrews to me. “I could not find it in myself to refuse either of them.”

“No?” Uriah asked. He looked at me curiously. “And did they presume upon you?”

“Steerforth did not,” I said. “Or certainly, nothing more than I would have readily done without being asked. But – the other did. He commanded me to sit alone in my room for a week.” I shuddered.

“It shows very well in you to vouchsafe such confidence,” Uriah said, not lifting his gaze, “to one so umble.”

“I scarcely know why I am telling you so much,” said I. “And I do not know what bearing it has upon the question.”

“It bears very much indeed,” Uriah said. “There is an indecent jest to make— I shall not, but one might.”

“Do you mean,” I said, “because those of my disposition may bear—”

He grimaced and returned to scraping his chin with great fervor.

“Have you ever known one to be umble?” he said.

“Of such a disposition?” I asked. “No, surely not. They were all men of means and power able to afford scope to their desires. I cannot imagine the outcome were such a one to be born without means. I think – knowing but little – that he should go mad with restraint, or turn to crime, as such men are often said to do.”

“To have always the object of his desires in his eye, but to be denied the means of ever obtaining it,” Uriah said. “Is that what should turn him mad?”

“I should fancy so,” I said, looking at him, and I fancied that he gave a shudder as our eyes met. I felt often that we were curiously in thrall to one another, sensible of the most minute changes of the other’s mood, like one of Mr. Dick’s sailboats in a changeable wind.

“That, then, is why it would be like ‘aving a fox in the henhouse,” Uriah said. “Do you not see, Master Copperfield?

“I do not quite see,” I said. I leaned over his shoulder and he went stock still, as stony and motionless as the gargoyle I so often likened him to. “They will not tell me of myself, Uriah,” I said, “and I am so curious to learn, as my life’s course is to be to some degree determined by what my disposition dictates. Will you not teach me anything?”

“Oh, no, Master Copperfield,” Uriah said. “I teach you? No, not such an umble fellow as I am. Your learning in such matters, I am sure, far outstrips mine.”

“Indeed, Uriah,” I said, “I think not.”

“Someday,” Uriah said, “you will find a man of the proper disposition what is able to give scope to his desires, and ‘e shall instruct you in all that is worth knowing.”

“Sometimes,” I said, startled at my own boldness, “-- look at me, Uriah, not at Mr. Tidd -- I suspect that you are a man of the proper disposition.”

“Oh no,” Uriah said, but he looked directly at me, as instructed, and his lashless eyes burned, “Surely I am much too umble to be blest with such a rare disposition, and you must not let yourself fall into such misapprehensions. You think too ‘ighly of me, Master Copperfield, to be sure.” Yet all the while he was turning his consuming gaze upon me in such a way that the hairs rose pricklingly along my neck, and I felt delightfully discomfited. I could not, in my innocence, name the source of this discomfort; it seemed to come from within me, somewhere, low and warm beneath my belly, the same place that sometimes troubled me after one of my nightmares of Uriah the pirate, at the mast of Mr. Tidd.

I made my way upstairs to bed. Yet it was a highly disconcerting state of affairs that greeted me when I awoke.

I was aware of a peculiar and increasing discomfort, situated – why obscure it? I shall have far greater cause to blush before this tale is done – in my loins.

The sheets were wet and sticky, and I was mortified. I thought perhaps I must be deathly ill. I composed myself with some difficulty and hobbled down to breakfast, feeling feverish and hot.

I begged leave of Wickfield to borrow any medical texts in his possession, and he said they were with Heep. With this end in view, I made my way into his study. I ought to have knocked.

When I entered he did not turn to look at me, which surprised me.

“Uriah,” I said, rather unpleasantly, as it took effort to make myself pleasant to him and I felt fatigued.

Still he did not turn. I went and stood before him.

“Master Copperfield,” he said, then his nostrils flared, and he gave a most peculiar writhe.

“I am here to borrow a medical text.”

“To assist you in your – condition?” Uriah asked. The way he pronounced the word “condition” sent a queer shiver down my spine. I knew the sense of the word as he said it. The thought was horrifying. If I were –

“Uriah,” I said, “I am, I think, in no such condition. Yet I could not but observe that he was breathing hard. His eyes were dark, not red; the pupil had devoured the iris. He looked away from me with a start.

“I think you are not what you appear to be,” I said, haltingly, not daring to look up at him.

“Accidents may occur in the best regulated families,” Uriah said, “even in the most umble ouse there may be a mistake of Blood. You mustn’t tell my most kind benefactor, for I should be out on the street in an instant, if he ever suspected I were anything but – umble. He might begin to suspect my influence over him, and cast everything in a most unpleasant light.”

“Uriah,” I said, “I suspect he might be right in so doing.”

“It is a very painful position you put me in, Master Copperfield,” he said. “What, I ask you, am I to do? To be of my condition but not of birth where it should be an honorable thing, where I should be a soldier or a man of stature such as your most charming schoolfellow. They would not like it in me. They prefer to find me beneath them. They prefer to think me fangless and ‘armless.”

“Think of my condition, Uriah!” I expostulated. “Think of my position in being so nearly placed—”

“I do,” Uriah said. His nostrils flared. “Indeed – though it shows very poorly in me, I am sure – I do little else but think of your position, Master Copperfield.”

I began to suspect that my curious fascination with Uriah was indeed quite simply explained: our natures had recognized one another at once, and the careful catalogues we kept of the other’s words and deeds was the result of our forced proximity.

“I wonder,” I said, a little boldly, “that you have – mastered what I am told is a very great compulsion in those of your disposition. The books on the subject that I have glanced at suggest that restraint is well nigh impossible.”

The dints beside Uriah’s nose twinkled at me. “Ah, Master Copperfield, you thought, then, that because I am but an umble fellow possessed of such a disposition at the first whiff of your most rare and delectable scent I should be rutting upon you like a stag?”

His words sent a shudder through me which I took pains to conceal but I knew he detected in spite of my efforts. “I meant it as praise of your restraint.”

“The restraint,” Uriah said, “is considerable.” He halted, mid-speech, as though he had scented a change in the air. “Master Copperfield,” he said, “I think it quite imprudent in you to dally here so long. You may bring great trouble upon yourself, and though you praise my restraint, I think you should have but little cause, were you to linger longer.”

Something stirred in me at these words. To be here with him in full awareness of what he was and what I was -- To observe his iron control, the terrible restraint in which he held himself, excited me queerly.

“Suppose,” I said, “you were not to resist.”

Uriah hugged himself beneath the chin, then turned and fixed his eyes on me. In the faint light they seemed almost to glow red.

“I do not think you would condescend to me so much as I could wish,” he said.

“How much would you wish?”

“All of you, Master Copperfield,” Uriah said, and then gave a start, as if he had not expected the words to be drawn so easily from his lips.

This admission had only stoked the fire in me. I felt that if I did not flee the room then and there, I would propose something highly irregular. I took a step nearer him – he looked at me, as if his eyes burned. I – I blush to write these words, and blush at my own forwardness now! It is a curious thing that man’s nature should be formed so, to render us beasts for the continuation of the species. These acts I am about to relate are scarcely the acts of a man; yet we must all make concessions to our nature and (I draw courage from the thought) this book shall see no eyes but yours, my most devoted tormenter! I shall write on – I drew near to him, where I could smell him better, and -- I bared my throat to Uriah Heep.

He could not resist; I did not expect resistance; his mouth was on my throat in an instant and I felt his damp and eel-like tongue caress the side of my neck. What would have ensued then I know not, but there was a great noise downstairs. Wickfield demanded his presence, and I fled, shamefaced, to my room.

But when I retired to my room I was in a yet worse state. A curious sort of perspiration slicked my thighs. It was like an itch that I could in no wise satisfy. I felt vastly and infuriatingly empty, and too hot. It was as though myriad tiny insects crawled along my skin. I was wild with it. I began to touch myself, at first idly, then with purpose. Uriah’s image came into my mind as I did so, and the thought that my hand might be replaced with his, that his writhing figure might insinuate itself so near as to be almost beneath my skin sent a shudder of want through me. I spent, but was still more unsatisfied. I could have cried out in my anguish when I heard the door creak open.

There was Uriah in his nightshirt, looking positively spectral. His eyes seemed to burn from within. The sight of him made me quake with relief.

“It is a wonder,” said he, “Master Copperfield, that you have not wakened the whole house. I could scent you from downstairs.”

“Uriah,” I gasped, for in him I saw the only hope of my release, “this is your doing, surely! I have never –oh, you must help me, you must be quick about it. Oh, I burn.”

“Pride is a sin, Master Copperfield,” Uriah said – I should have said, smugly. “Such an umble one as I, Master Copperfield, could not have worked you into such a state? With my conversation? Oh, dear no, Master Copperfield, surely you are mistaken.”

“Uriah,” I said, with a pout, “you need not gloat. Only, I pray, as you are the cause of my discomfiture, you must be the remedy of it.”

“You will condescend to me so much?” Uriah said. “It would be a great honor, and I am sure I am not worthy of it. But I am certain you have condescended so much to others—”

“Uriah,” I said, “it has not happened before, and I do not know how to go about it, and I know only that I must have relief and you must not torment me, if it is in your power to assist me.”

“Oh,” said he, “umble as I am, I’ve got a little power! And I must assist you, then? Young Master Copperfield demands it?”

“I am not so young Uriah, only I am young in experience, and – why do you stand and talk, I am in agony.” I made a sound, one I cannot set down.

He approached. “It is your first time,” he said. “You have not—”

“No,” I gasped, writhing in the sheets, “never, never, and there is none but you who can assist me.”

“Assist you,” he said, with an ironic twist of his mouth. “I do not think it will please you upon reflection to have condescended to one so umble in such a great degree. What you would cast away on me is a rare honor indeed, best bestowed elsewhere, I should think, and you ought to reflect upon how you might best bestow it--”

“Uriah,” I gasped, “please.” I could not help twisting in the sheets, and I was aware that the sight of me in this distress was greatly moving to him, and sought further influence over him. And indeed he did draw nearer and stood over me, his eyes glowing like twin coals. He was like a spider creeping along his web, and I, the willing fly, twisting therein. “Be merciful.”

“The quality of mercy,” Uriah said, “is not strained.”

“No,” I said, “that is, yes, please, you must. Only—” Here I halted. The picture from my schooldays hovered again in my mind. I was a wild thing, mad with thirst, but there was, I knew, between those of such disparate conditions, a higher plane of intimacy beyond even that which my body was so shamelessly demanding from Uriah, and the thought that in my condition I might beg him to render our attachment permanent made me turn, for a moment, cold with fear.

“Say no more,” Uriah said. “I know what it is that I must not do. But it would pain me to hear it.”

“If you were to do it,” I said, “you should be revealed for what you are. It would not go easy with you then.”

“At such a time as this,” Uriah said, with a hug of himself under the chin, “it is no great matter to me what would go easy or hard with me, so long as you would. But you have my promise I shall not strive to – further our acquaintance more permanently.”

I was hot, so hot, and I confess to an ulterior motive, but I shrugged off the sheets and looked at him, and in a moment, with a queer grating chuckle, he was on me.

He set about divesting me of my nightclothes, remarking upon my condition all the while in terms most inclined to make me blush: how lovely I was, how fine and rare my scent, though surely men were right to hold such things in contempt, he was not above such low fare himself, that he supposed that was only the flaw in his own disposition, and what a great pity it was that so remarkable a jewel should be thrown away to such a base Indian as himself, that it humbled him to think on, that I would surely be ruined, that he was very humbly sorry to be the cause of my ruin, that such were the follies of this world – but, in short, as he expostulated upon my condition, he made away with my garments.

His form was indeed different than my own; I saw the marks of his Nature quite plainly. Though he had taken pains to hide them with his cringing, flattering manner, when he was bare they were all too visible. I could not take my eyes from his member with its curious knot. I made so bold as to touch it with my hand and his whole body shuddered.

“How will it fit?” I asked.

“Oh,” Uriah said, “you must not flatter me, it is a small thing.”

“It is not, indeed,” I said, “I am not sure how I shall manage it.”

As I pondered he had taken mine in hand, firmly. “Now,” said he, “David—I may call you so, since we’re to be better acquainted? – you must tell me how it is you prefer.” His hand began to work at me and I keened within his grip.

I had thought that he would proceed directly about the business that seemed the logical end of our encounter, but here I was surprised; he took his time about it. He posed questions: had anyone else ever touched me? How did I like to touch myself? What was it that I contemplated when I did so? When I said he was the first, he positively writhed with satisfaction; he kissed me with a fixed and hungry attention that tore all breath from my body. Kissing him was a deed I blush to confess I had not contemplated; I had envisaged only acts of a far more bestial nature, but as he undertook it this act, too, felt unspeakably lewd. He kissed me as though it were not permitted. I was startled at the fervor of my own response; it left me discomfited, as if I had revealed too much.

“Uriah,” I managed, “this is not to the purpose.”

“Oh,” Uriah said, his lips brushing my neck, quite near the forbidden spot, so that a shudder ran through my whole frame, “it is all to the purpose, David.” His voice curled possessively around he syllables; I shuddered again to hear it on his lips.

I had not realized his strength; he was wiry and almost fierce. 

My education in such matters had been a good deal more theoretical than practical, but I could guess at what was required. At first I was scarcely certain of myself. He was too near; he was not near enough. I did not wish him to touch me; I wished him to touch me everywhere. His touch was cool, blessedly cool, and yet I burned with it. I could not believe myself to be thus, conceding to him in such a great degree, and yet it seemed the simplest thing in all the world.

“David,” Uriah muttered, “David, my own."

The fixity of his gaze was something to which I was accustomed, but in such a state it had a great effect upon me. He seemed unthinkably gigantic, the size of his own shadow looming in the firelight. I was hard and thrilled at his every touch, and my thighs were drenched with an unaccustomed slick. He prodded at it with a curious finger, then lifted the finger to his nose, inhaled, and then slid it between his lips with an evident relish. I could scarcely breathe. 

Seeing him now, thus, I wondered that I had never supposed his condition to be anything other than the servile creature he appeared. This mastery was his natural state; his figure no longer seemed distorted and twisted as it ever had. Such ambition and aggression, always to be tamped down and told to eat humble pie! Small wonder that he seemed to burn.

“Oh, Master Copperfield,” he breathed. “Oh, you are a rare delight, not fit fare for one so umble as I am.”

”David,” I gasped, pulling him to me, “you must call me David.”

I cannot describe what ensued in any degree of detail without blushing; Uriah says it is a bad habit, but I understand him better, now, and suspect that he only disparages what he most joys in.

He took me to pieces, I went to pieces willingly. He took pains with my delight; he had me thoroughly; he was ravenous for my attention; each time he coaxed his name from my lips he gave another writhe of satisfaction, until I was uttering it again and again like a benediction. 

“Uriah,” I gasped, at the last, when he was draped over my back, in me to the hilt, his mouth brushing against my throat in the most tempting manner. It was with difficulty that I clung to my last shred of reason and did not beg him to complete our intimacy. To have someone bound to me, to be forced to return to me again and again, to give myself over to him entirely — there seemed untold delight in the idea. Yet Uriah showed considerable restraint, and mildly kissed me through his spasm, murmuring my name in my ear.

We could not dissever ourselves after the fulfillment of our intimacy. I lay listening to his heart beat rabbit-quick, and he to mine. He grabbed at my hand with his long fingers and clutched it to him.

“Uriah,” I said, thus coupled and butted against him, feeling a curious thrill with each burst as he spent himself in me, “do you know that you have been often in my fancy.”

He emitted a noise that bore a resemblance to a whimper, then obliged me to turn my head and kiss him. He performed this task with a fervor that struck at my heart, as though he drank life from my lips.

“Master Copperfield,” he said, “--old abit, you must pardon it—I have always treasured up your words but these, I treasure unspeakably.” He bestowed upon me then another curiously fervent kiss, that seemed like a prayer a heathen might make to his idol. It seemed to startle him that I met him willingly, and let him drink of my lips as he would. “Do not mock this in me,” he murmured, half in my neck, “do not mock this fondness in me, Master Copperfield, though I am so umble, I could not bear it.”

“Mock it?” said I. “Fondness? Uriah, how could I mock what I know nothing of?” Where we had conjoined was sticky and I shifted, but he had swelled in me and would not be budged. He threw an arm companionably about me.

“You have never condescended to me so much as I would have preferred,” Uriah murmured, nosing at the spot on my neck where he had not broken the skin, “but it’s no matter.”

A thrill of – I would a few days or hours prior have called it revulsion, but now I was not certain what to term it – something galvanic passed through me. “Uriah,” I muttered, “it was only – it being only my first time, I did not think it right—”

“It was little more than I expected,” Uriah mused. “For I am quite an umble person.”

The thought of being in permanent harness with such a figure – it filled me with an obscure terror, yet sent a thrill through me at the same moment. 

“I cannot imagine you so willing to throw your lot in with me, Uriah,” I said. “It is a heavy vow. To never be able to be parted long, and to—“

”David,” he said, and from so near his eyes looked dark, “where else should I desire to go?”

At that I kissed him, and murmured all kinds of nonsense. “Uriah,” I reproached him, “I did not say that you should never—only – not yet.”

At this he seemed satisfied. And I fancy that he is — he is here now, and able to vouch for the truth of this account. And indeed though I did not permit him that liberty then, it was only a matter of time, and I have as yet had no cause to regret my choice. 

 


End file.
